Lament of the Hunter
by Teroglahn
Summary: Achenar's thoughts at the end of Revelations. Major Spoiler for M4R


**Author's Note:** I found a few typos and other errors in _Chor Bahkh _and _Cho_, so I'll be updating it soon. Also, this fic has a major spoiler for M4R, so read at your own risk. It is in Achenar's POV and is a one-shot. A very dark one with a ray of light at the end.

**Disclaimer:** Ubisoft and Cyan Worlds own M4R, and I don't. Honestly, do we really need these disclaimers?

**Lament of the Hunter**

It is becoming so hard to breathe. The poisonous fumes have entered my lungs, and are slowly taking over me. My hand is gripping the railing with all the strength it has left. Little by little, I raise my foot, which suddenly seems heavier than ever before, bring it onto the next step, and, with all my might, pull myself up behind it. It is as if any moment now, I'll slip and fall. I'm not afraid of that, though. I know it will happen eventually.

I drop my crossbow as I slowly limp up the rotting wooden steps, abandoning it in order to secure my grip on the rope railing. Not that I need it, anyway. It is not as though I'm some sort of valiant hero, charging up the steps to fight his greatest foe to the death. Instead, I'm a cowardly murderer, hobbling up the crooked steps like a bloated old salmon using up the last of its strength to go upstream to where it will die.

An unusual ending for me, indeed. All my life I prided myself as the hunter, the greatest of predators, who would cheat death time and time again with might and wits. But there was one who was greater than I.

Sirrus.

For many years, I have despised that name. For so long, that greedy little brother of mine has bossed me around, criticizing my every action, always telling me what to do and what not to do as if I was his servant. Yes, I could have pulverized him, even killed him, with ease – this image was in my head for so long! Yet he was the only key to what I wanted: power. My jealously of Sirrus and all his inventions and strategies, each one making my works look like a canvas tent next to a towering castle, is what crazed me even more than I already was. So, Sirrus, it is YOUR FAULT ALL THIS HAPPENED!

No. It isn't his fault. It is _my_ fault. I was the big brother, less loved, yet looked up to, especially by the little sibling. Right before my own eyes, I saw Sirrus grow proud and greedy. I should have set an example for him. Even if that failed, I should have stopped him, convinced him to do what's right. But before he went down the twisted path of corruption, I did.

Sirrus… you were right to blame me for everything that went wrong. It was my fault - my fault that I ever brought you into this mess. Tears start to fill my eyes – NO! I can't cry. The king of hunters does not cry. Okay, maybe he does.

I remember, 39 years ago, kneeling by great-grandmother Anna's fresh grave. I cried nonstop. Everybody commented on how I used to overreact, speaking primarily through emotions. This was why Sirrus was always the popular kid and I was the screaming weirdo. Nobody wanted to be around me, either out of fear or dislike. Anna was the only one who accepted me, perhaps because she remembered being an outcast herself and didn't want the same to happen to me. She actually understood me!

And then she left. The only person who I could truly talk to was gone forever. I put what was left of my hopes in Father, hoping _he_, who grew up with Anna and knew what rejection felt like after being disowned by Grandfather Gehn, but I was proven wrong again. Obviously, he was _far_ too interested in his books to care for his son. I probably shouldn't blame him, since Anna was the only person he had ever known for many years, the only one he could trust in, so her death must've hit him hardest of all.

Still, I was jealous of him, too, seeing the pride he always had as he completed a Book, the excitement he felt as he placed his hand on the Linking Panel of a Descriptive Book for the first time, anxious to see if his experiments worked. I… just wanted to feel the same excitement of Writing an Age, as did Sirrus. So we begged Father, and begged some more. Eventually, Father gave us the Age of J'nanin and the associated Lesson Ages for us to learn how to balance nature, energy, dynamic forces, and civilization to make a stable Age. And I admit, despite the fact that Father's prerecorded sermons on the imagers were kind of boring and my arm and chest muscles were sore from weaving Lattice roots all day in Narayan, it was fun!

But after a while, Father took us back to Myst. He had given up on trying teaching us the Art, thinking that we would misuse it. Even though he never told us directly (and even though he was right – we would've turned out like crazy Grandpa Gehn!), we were crushed. I had written journal after journal about the Age I'd write someday. Yes, the land would be lush and fertile, spreading miles and miles – whole continents rather than island universes, which was the usual scenario in the Ages of Myst. And the people there would be very advanced, instead of the usual primitive cultures that live in the Ages, who we always had to help someway or another. And I would write Age after Age after Age! Being a D'ni, I had to know!

But no. Father wouldn't teach us! Sirrus and I were in a state of pure rage. The Books… yes, it was the bloody Linking Books' fault that Father was ignoring us and our thirst for knowledge and the same power he had. Father let us go into more of his Ages by ourselves, but we took it as an insult, as if he was bragging uncontrollably about what he could do and what we could not. Finally, we couldn't take it anymore. We decided that if Father was not willing to give us power, then we would seize it ourselves, no matter what the cost.

And so our reign of terror began. Sirrus and I gathered like-minded followers, and we took down Age after Age. The only one who stood up to us was Saavedro, our former teacher.

Saavedro. My eyes water even more when I hear that name. The man was so thoughtful, so clever. He offered me so much hospitality, yet I betrayed him, just as I betrayed everyone I knew and loved. Sirrus and I tied him to one of the reflection poles, and let him scream in agony as we linked out of J'nanin, burning the last of the Linking Books as we left. Father told me back on Haven that he had been exiled for twenty years just as I had, yet it seemed that he underwent much more pain than I had. Saavedro had something to live for, and I took it all away from him, even if he did gain it back in the end. He had friends, a family of his very own – he had love in his life!

I never felt love. Ever since Anna died and Father became immersed in his work, I began to close my heart to everyone. I figured that the only result of love is pain. Pain from loss and pain from rejection, both leave a poor soul in the dark. Alone. I didn't want to be hurt again.

But even this didn't work. Instead of being free of pain, I just felt locked in the dark, so cold and lonely. And afraid. Yes, I admit it, I was afraid. But I couldn't tell anyone or I would be laughed at. So I hid all my emotions except hatred, and I let it rip me apart. Soon, the boy who used to sit down and dream of other worlds died, leaving a loathsome monster in his place. And this beast, whose cruelty showed no bounds, decided to show everyone what it can do, what it can create, what it can destroy…

What it can destroy.

The beast thought of itself as king, so every other person it knew was its slaves. Slaves that had raised him since birth, slaves that gave him food and shelter and hospitality, slaves that had taught him everything he knew, and slaves who loved him, and thought they were loved back.

These "slaves" were my friends. The Channelwood tree-dwellers taught us how to make ink out of flowers. The Mechanical fortress survivors taught us machinery, and how to battle against those who want to blot you out. Emmit, Branch, Will and all their friends in Stoneship taught us how to fish and appreciate the simple things in life. And the Narayanis taught us duty and responsibility.

What happened to them?

The Narayani villagers? We turned the youth against them, causing a civil war which almost destroyed the whole Age.

The tree-dwellers and the fishermen of Stoneship? Death by cruel experiments, including the shock-cage and poisoning.

The Mechanical guardians? We led a massive campaign against them with the Black Ships. After we had destroyed the few old men that remained, we killed the pirates, too, turning the Age's sky a cruel light-blue at last.

So much pain, so much death. And I can still hear the screams, from the sudden ear-piercing shrieks combined with voltage from the shock-cage to the horrified cries of victims as they watch with wild eyes as I thrust my blade down to connect with their chests.

Those screams were over twenty years old, yet I still hear them loud and clear. They come when I sleep at night, when it is so quiet. I plug my ears, yet they are even louder. I shout, "Leave me alone! I said I'm sorry!" But they do not listen. My cry, which does not even rival theirs', is only a reason for them to scream louder, _louder_, LOUDER! And I see things, so hideous that I cannot even begin to describe them.

And it does not stop.

I am almost at the top of the steps of the Abandoned Memory Chamber. Yes, it was at this spot where Sirrus and I abused the magic of Serenia. The Serenians, who were unharmed by our holocaust, used this enormous, magical flower to extract the memories of their deceased so that they could visit them whenever they wished in the Dream World. But here, we built a terrible device that could take out memories from a living person, allowing someone else to place their own memories in the unfortunate soul's body, taking control of it.

My father's friend – by the Maker, why can't I remember his name?- is sitting in the second steel chair, gazing with a blank stare at the eyeholes carved into the stone suspended above him. My guess is that he is still battling Sirrus in Dream. But I am not worried about that now, since he made the proper offering for his Spirit Guide. What concerns me is the occupant of the other chair…

"Yeesha." I whisper.

Yes, in that chair is my little sister. She is slumped over in her seat, her sky-blue eyes, which always glow in wisdom and understanding, are wide open in a dazed stare, just as her mouth is open as if gasping in horror. I place my hand on her forehead. Still cold.

My eyes water even more than ever. Yeesha is a beautiful name, meaning "laughter" in D'ni. And that's how everyone felt around her; pure joy. A second chance for all of us, to make things better this time around.

She always used to visit me in the Haven Linking Chamber, always curious. During the earlier of these visits, she would study me carefully, as if pondering over my true character. I wonder what Mother and Father have been telling her. I know that in any case, a kid her age would hiss and boo and my name, considering me a murderous creature of pure evil without any care for those it destroys. And they would definitely run away from me.

Yeesha, however, she's different. She's more insightful than other 10-year-olds. In fact, she was the only one who really opened up to me in so many years. It's as if those blue eyes of her can see right through my soul, and discovered that scared little boy who I used to be. Perhaps that is a bit too mushy way of putting it, but it is true! I never believed in reincarnation, but I am beginning to think that she is Great-Grandmother Anna reborn in a new, younger body.

If only Father could see the way she saw. All that "bonding" time we spent in Haven, he asked me so many grueling, hurtful questions. "Did you care about how anyone would feel as you burned the Books, Achenar?" "Why did you do it, my son?" I tried to give him the simplest answer I could without hurting anyone's feelings, yet that led to more questions. Communicating with him at all was so difficult, seeing that I spoke so much from emotions. He thinks I'm a savage, damn it! A KILLER SAVAGE WHO HAPPENED TO BE HIS SON! But I've changed Father. I've changed! Why don't you believe me?

For the most part, Father didn't even let Yeesha visit me alone. I remember one time I was trying to give Yeesha a present, but Father, obviously assuming it was one of my bone collections, brought the meeting to an abrupt halt and the two returned to Tomahna. And I never got to give her that present, which was a golden necklace from the Shipwreck that I selected just for her. Father, I know you had good intentions, but why?

I kneel down in front of Yeesha, my legs now are so relaxed from carrying my body, a burden they can no longer handle, but I get up a second later, hearing footsteps coming from the second chair. Father's friend has defeated my brother and awakened, and is now approaching me, confused. No words escape his wide open mouth, seeing how he trained himself to be so quiet.

"We did it," I wheeze, hobbling toward the Stranger slower than ever, and with more difficulty than ever, "The transfer worked. We saved Yeesha."

A hacking cough leaps from my mouth. I put a hand on my chest in pain. It's as if my soul if trying to burst out of my out through my lips. The traveler jumped in shock, his eyes wide open in fear of what happened to me, and what might happen to him.

"Don't look so surprised," I chuckle, "The lifestone had to be inserted directly into the shrine. Otherwise it wouldn't have worked. The only way to do that was to break the glass that contained the gasses. 'Course, that did make it kind of lethal."

Strange how life has such a cruel sense of humor. I placed that glass shield around the Heart Chamber twenty years ago to protect myself from being killed by the deadly fumes. I still met my fate with the fumes, though, since I just had to shatter the glass to insert the Lifestone to save Yeesha, which is where you come in.

"Better this way," I sigh, "All the things I did…"

Yes, I do deserve this death, this cruel and ironic fate, because of all that I did to the residents of the Ages of Myst. And to Father. And to myself. I look back to the first chair where Yeesha is sitting, and starting to stir. Wait a minute – she's awake! Praise the Maker, she's alive! I limp over to her, and kneel in front over her once more. I have a feeling that I won't be getting up again.

She stares at me in confusion, an abundance of questions in her blue eyes. Before she could speak, I put a hand to her cheek and whisper to her in the most sincere voice I have. An interesting sight indeed, like a powerful lion comforting a wounded songbird.

"It's okay," I say to her, "Sirrus is dead. It's over. Everything's going to be okay. It'll be okay, little sis. It'll be okay."

As I end my words of comfort, my last words, I just feel so… sleepy. My voice, once deep and grand, decays into a soft whisper, and my eyes close as my head slowly falls onto Yeesha's lap. Is this death? Is this what I have been dreading and fighting against, even aiding for so many years? I welcome this feeling of slipping out of consciousness, as it relieves me from all the pain the fumes have given me. In truth… it's not so bad!

I feel Yeesha's soft hand stroke my long untidy hair, exactly as Anna stroked it when I was little. Her other hand is holding mine, and I can't help but think it is an angel holding my hand, pulling me into heaven. The screams, the horrible things I see are fading, fading, fading… they're gone. I can hear Anna's voice from a distance, singing me a lullaby so I can go to sleep without worry, without pain. It has been so long since I have heard that old, sweet voice.

Maybe life and love isn't that bad after all…

The End


End file.
